I am going to say it out loud. I am turning 60 in two weeks and I can hardly
believe it. I think I felt this way when
I turned 30, then 40. Fifty I believed,
even wore, proudly, but 60? That is
seriously into “senior” category, and that certainly puts the fear of goddess
into me.
I am told often, “You don’t look your age” and always take
it as a compliment and a tribute to genes, avoidance of sun and use of
expensive skin and hair products since my early 30’s. I do recognize that the compliment is an
obvious example of the value we place in youth and youthful appearance.
But I also am finally willing and able to accept the compliment for the
spirit with which I approach life. And
that’s a choice.
Just the other
evening, I was dining at the bar of a noisy, crowded Nashville restaurant,
surrounded mostly by 20 and 30-somethings in tight little dresses. Just behind me, though, was another woman,
whose overheard conversation revealed that she was 61. As she carried on and on about her ailments
and her complaints, I turned around to look, and man, did she “look her age”. At 61, everything she projected was that she has given up, settled in, grown
comfortable in her oldness with little energy for looking forward. That is her
choice.
Contrast that with Bonnie Raitt, who I saw in concert last
month. She was hot, strutting, confident;
who ever noticed that Bonnie couldn’t hit certain notes any more. She wasn’t talking about it, but rather was
celebrating every moment on that stage and every moment that has gotten her to
where she is now.
Bonnie is my role model as I cross into this new age decade. My latest cowboy boots are coming along for
the ride, and I hope I am always told that I don’t look my age, regardless of
how I actually look.
